


I: The Forging

by NateFraust



Series: Steel and Snow [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Forced Pregnancy, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2020-03-19 21:35:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18978802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NateFraust/pseuds/NateFraust
Summary: To the lords of Westeros, houses come and go as summer rises and winter falls, but words and the bonds they forge live on. What is dead may never die, be it born of iron or ice.





	1. The Wretch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kraken returns.

** The Wretch **

Her voice, her plea for help and salvation, rings in the hollow of his head, in the brokenness of his heart.

“He’ll see us,” he croaks, chest contracting painfully at the thought. “You don’t _know_ him.”

He traces the line of her collarbone with his eyes, willing himself not to twitch, not to jerk, to remain perfectly still, until…

A touch on his shoulder, his neck, his chin. Feather-soft.

She forces his gaze up to meet hers, hard as ice… or iron.

“I know _you_ .” Her tone doesn’t waver. “I’ve seen the real you, not this… _thing_ that _bastard_ has made you.” She cups his cheeks, draws him close enough for their foreheads to touch. “You are _Theon Greyjoy_ , the last son of Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands.” There’s a hint of warmth, and pain, in her eyes now. “My father treated you as a son, as one of our pack. _Remember_ , Theon. That is _who you are_.”

He inhales, and the words begin to form on his lips, the words that Master always says, _Reek, weak, sneakpeekmeekReek,_ but the taste of her stops him, snowberries and lemons and a hint of summer and _her_. When she retreats, panting, her gaze is soft and intent.

“If not for yourself, then for me. Remember for _me_ . _Please_.”

The twitching returns, almost violently, spreading through him like wildfire through a ship’s hull, until he’s shaking like a branch in a hurricane, anchored by the feel of her arms around him. _reekreekreekReekReekREEKREEKREEK-_

“Reeeeeemember,” he wheezes.

Cold hands grasp at his face again, drawing him back in search of that spark of what once was. Slowly, a tremulous smile overtakes her, and she nods jerkily.

“Yes, _yes_.” She kisses his forehead and clutches him to her; he swells at the warmth and softness of the gesture, so unlike what Master-

He freezes, pushes her away. Avoiding her searching stare, her worried questions passing by like wind, he hurries away, hunched over and clenching phantom fingers.

On the far rampart, pale hands lower a Myrish spyglass from ice-blue irises, and thin, spit-wetted lips distend into a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as you can see, this is an AU centering around Theon and Sansa, starting around the time of the episode "The Gift" and continuing on from there.
> 
> A couple of changes:  
> \- I find book Theon/Reek to be a lot more interesting than the show version, so most of the injuries that Ramsay inflicted on book Theon/Reek will be reflected here.  
> \- Sansa doesn't yet know that Theon "killed" her brothers.


	2. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bastard of the Boltons reveals what he has observed, and the wolf and kraken suffer for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains a graphic depiction of rape. If you are afraid of being triggered by this, I urge you to click away from this story now.

**Sansa**

The stench of him clings to her as he releases her hair, shoving her into the furs and mounting her like a hound ravenous in heat. She hardly feels the rough edge of him as he hilts inside her.

She hardly ever feels anything but cold at the moment. The trickle, a familiar sensation, comes at its’ appropriate time, but it is anything but pleasant, nor welcome.

Then again, treachery comes naturally to her, whether it be in word or deed.

After a time, the crush of him comes off her back, and she hears the bed creak as he flops down on the other side, groaning in his grasped pleasure. She can faintly feel his essence spill from her, leaving a sore throbbing that radiates throughout her whole body.

Sense returns to her in jolts: the sting between her legs, the tang of iron in the air, the trickle of blood as the cuts on her shoulders, back and abdomen stretch and tear, soddening the sweat-moist sheets further.

It takes everything in her to not flinch as a _klnng_ suddenly cuts the air, and the thin, slight high pitch calls out, “Oh, _Reeeek_!”

The door creaks open, and she watches as Theon enters, hunched and stumbling. “Y-yes, Master?”

Her arse stings from a sudden slap, and her heart sinks as he cheerfully commands “Reek” to “clean” her. She can’t reason through this sudden new torment the bastard has developed, nor why he would allow his “servant” to touch and nuzzle at her, nor can Theon. She feels the bed dip further, bites her lip as his nose prods at her forbidden ring and his lips latch onto her lower ones. His tongue tickles at her insides as he laps at the bastard’s seed, and warmth pools in her belly. Unbidden, a minute whine escapes her.

“It heartens me to see a stud take such _good care_ of his bitch. I must commend you… _Theon_.”

Ice grips her heart and cools the fanning flames as the Ironborn’s strokes falter and stutter to a stop.

“Oh, come now.” His voice is full of glee, as if he is a child who just discovered a new toy, and the absence of rage chills her body further. “All the times you weren’t in your place among your brethren when I came by to check, the lingering glances at my wife as we dined. The long baths you took, my lady Sansa.” By now, any trace of mirth has bled away from his voice, leaving it as cold as the men he flays. “Only a fool would not see things for what they are.”

“Master, I-”

The wet _ppfth_ of flesh striking flesh, the cry of pain and the _thdd_ of a body hitting the rough stone floor. The dark, furious sear of his gaze, first on her, then him. These things she will never forget, for the rest of her days.

“Get up, _Reek_.” Theon moans, the dark cavern of his mouth shining in pale iridescence. The bastard’s seed, and soon, what little food, and then finally blood spews from him in time with the kicks to the gut, leaving him dry heaving in a puddle of white, red, and brown.

“Get. Up.” He towers over the Greyjoy, dragging him to his feet and onto the bed by his hair with only a faint moan from Theon. She struggles to rise, to help the one, last member of her family left, when she feels a hand at her back, and a prodding at her forbidden entrance.

She tries to scream, she truly does, but quick as lightning, his hand is clasped cold over her mouth, and she squeezes her eyes shut tight at the rip of pain as the last entrance to her body is pulled and pushed, stretched, torn, and left wet and stinging.

“I think that should be good enough,” he whispers in a nauseatingly-saccharine tone, before saying, “here, _boy._ ”

Theon only whimpers, then, as the hand leaves her mouth- a yelp of pain, and a new pressure prods at her ravaged hole, then at her abused lips.

“Now, Sansa, would you kindly do your new breeder the utmost courtesy and deign him with your gaze?”

She tries to lift her head, but it only rises a few inches before dropping again, her heart shriveling in fear.

“Sansa, Sansa, Sansa.” A hand grips her chin, wrenching it to the side to stare into death-pale eyes. “Look at your stud, my lady.”

She gathers all the hate she can muster, and simply glares at him in what she hopes is a fair approximation of her father’s frankly terrifying gaze of rage. A slap to the face is her answer.

“ _Look. At. Him._ ”

Cheek stinging from the blow, she cranes her head back to look at the rust-headed man; his gaze is fixed on the weeping wounds across her back.

“Excellent. Now, I will be observing your… _mating rituals_ ,” he mocks, striding over to a chair beside the fireplace and sinking into it. “If, by the time I say _stop_ , you have not filled her hole with your seed, _Reek_ … well, then, I’ll just have to enjoy myself, won’t I?” His short, baleful chuckle shatters her heart. “Now, let us _begin._ ”

* * *

 

He never touches her face. Even he isn’t so stupid as to leave any marks above and beyond the slope of her collarbone and breasts. If anyone were to claim it as “good”, however, she can only scoff.

Joffrey had been much the same way.

Ever so lightly, her fingers ghost over the new scabs from that day, that horrific, grim-faced, gods-damned day. Even her own touch brings the sensation back now.

Almost absentmindedly, she looks over at the cold, gelatinous plate of roast beef and winter vegetables, and gives a small, mirthless smile to no one in particular at the lack of blade or fork. _Can’t let your most_ esteemed _wife slit her own wrists while she is in your care, can you, you beast?_

Her eyes are drawn to the creak of the door, and she stands as Theon enters, hunched in pain as he has been for the past month. She notes another finger missing from his right hand, and a perverse feeling of satisfaction washes over her.

“Master wishes for me to check for- for-” His remaining appendages twitch and spasm as his mouth roils around the word.

“The time for my moonblood has passed, _Reek._ ” Part of her is glad at the flinch she receives from the wretch. “Kindly inform my _dear_ husband that there is no stain upon my smallclothes this day.”

“Sansa, I-”

“If another word comes out of your traitorous raper mouth, I will make you eat your own tongue.” Her voice is calm, unwavering; she is glad for it.

There is pain in his gaze now, greater than before, and an even greater sorrow, but as he finds no sympathy in her own, he simply bows his head and exits.

Sinking to her knees, she offers up a prayer to the gods, to do as she bid and take this- this _abomination_ from her, and tears stream down her face as she weeps bitter tears of sorrow and fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not enjoy writing this chapter; no one should feel comfortable with writing, drawing, or animating rape of any kind. However, I believe that, for the progression of the story, if not the characters, the forced sharing of the experience is necessary to the continued growth of said characters. I can only hope I did as much justice as to what the horror and shame of violation must have been like for both Sansa and Theon, as victims of Ramsay. 
> 
> Hopefully, the next chapter can be a somewhat lighter affair.


	3. Reek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing that was once a squid suffers.

Reek’s stomach lurches at the wafting scent of mutton, fresh bread, and mulled wine, and he dips his head as the cook shoves Master’s meal into his hands. Some of the drink sloshes over the goblet’s rim and splashes against his hands, and he flinches at the sudden memory.

He can still hear her cries and pleas to whatever divine thing there was, can recall the exact cadence and shiver as she voiced those foul, _foul_ words.

The halls wind and warp in his head, but the voices, one deep and another high, draw him onward. He squints as the light from the small hall’s windows filter through the spotting snowfall, speckling his sight, and he hurries forward to place Master’s midday meal before him.

“Your meal, Master,” he mumbles, before drawing back to where Master wants him to stand.

“You. Greyjoy.”

His head twitches as he looks up to meet the eye of Lord Roose. “Mmmm-m’lord?” he responds, not _daring_ to correct the Lord Paramount of the North.

“Leave us,” the brown-and-silver-haired man orders, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. Reek looks to Master, who squints at his lord father for a moment before dipping his head in allowance.

He turns on his heel and walks to the door, only to pause as the Lord Paramount muttered, “What in the name of the Others possessed you to have that- that- _thing_ , mate with the Stark girl? Have you learned _nothing_ from all I have tried to teach you these past few months?”

He slips out the door as Master coolly responds, “I hardly doubt my dear lady wife will take with some squidling’s ink.”

A _ppappp_ resounds down the halls as he scurries away.

* * *

He averts his eyes from old Stella as she hangs on the cross. The dark crimson globules still carry that familiar scent of metal and rust, and he forces himself not to gag as Master’s wife heaves what little was in her belly onto the frozen slush of the courtyard.

“Reek told me that you wanted to leave.” Master’s voice holds a half-note of confusion. “But why? Winterfell is your _home_ , and I _am_ your husband, am I not?”

He feels her gaze flick to him, then away as Master continues. “Tough old bird. Everyone talks when I start peeling them, but this one,” he laughs, “her heart gave out before I even got to her face.” He can hear her panting and nearly heaving again.

“We _do_ make them _tough_ in the North. Not at all like those Islanders and all those Southron folk.” His tone is almost wistful, before it brightens suddenly. “Oh, yes. I do believe I forgot to tell you. Foolish of me, I know, but with the stag right outside our walls, can you blame me? Reek, come here.”

He waddles over, feet dragging through the slush like blocks of ice, to stand before Master and his wife.

“Be a good boy and tell her what you did, Reek.” Master’s gaze burns into him, rooting him to the ground. “Tell her what you did to her brothers.”

“I-I-”

“Now, now, Reek. You know you need to look your lady in the eye when you speak to her.”

“I killed them. I killed your brothers.” His voice is small, and he watches as her face contorts in rage and sorrow.

“Speak up, now. I believe you’re missing an important part of that statement. What do we say to those who we’ve wronged?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

Ramsay takes a step towards him, and he backs away, feet slipping on a patch of frozen muck and landing on his sore arse.

“Sorry! I’m sorry!” he sobs, scrambling away from the pair, towards where he belongs.

Master’s wife bends over and vomits again, a stream of yelllowish bile leaving her mouth as she clutches at the slight swell at her abdomen. Master takes a step away from her, disgust etched on his features, and snaps his fingers. “Take my esteemed wife to her chambers and clean her, would you, Reek? Do be careful where you place your fingers, however. I hear wolves can be rather vicious when cornered.”

He struggles to his feet, and shuffles off towards the keep, ears keen for the following shuffle of Master’s wife.

* * *

“Why.”

Her voice is soft, flat. Like dusted ice.

He stares at her, holding her gaze for a few moments before dipping his head.

“ _Why_ , Theon.”

The meager fire sputters weakly, but continues on just the same.

“I’m not Theon.” He can feel the tremble in his throat, as if something is swelling up inside him, smashing against the dikes of his mind as he looks at her motionless face. “There _is_ no Theon. It’s _Reek_.”

“Reek.” His name sounds worse on her lips, somehow, bloodied and bitten. “Why did you tell him, _Reek_?”

“I was helping you.” Inadvertently, his gaze falls ever so slightly; she crosses her arms over the growing life within. “You wanted to escape. There _is_ no _escape_.” He takes a few furtive steps forward, then halts at her glare. “Not ever.”

Her mouth opens, perhaps in protest, but he burrows on. “Theon Greyjoy tried to escape, but Master knew. He knows everything. He hunted him. Caught him. Strapped him to a cross and cut away piece after piece, until there was no Theon left.”

She swallows thickly, jaw set, then spits, “Clearly, there was enough.”

He lifts his gaze to her.

“If it weren’t for you, I would still have a family I wanted. If I could do what Ramsay did to you _right here_ , _right now ,_  I would.”

He tears his gaze away, a lump in his throat. “I deserved everything, and more. I _deserve_ to be Reek. I did terrible things. Turned on Robb. Captured Winterfell. Killed those boys-”

“They weren’t ‘those _boys_ ’,” she snarls, surging to her feet with some difficulty. “They were _Bran_ and _Rickon_ .” Walking towards him slowly, she continues, “They were your _brothers_ ; you’ve known them since they were _born._ ”

“They _weren’t_ ; they were only-” He stops himself, unable to meet her gaze as she stands before him.

“Only what?” Her voice is a darkening storm.

“I can’t-”

“Tell me.”

“I _can’t_ ,” he pleads, voice louder now. “Not unless the Master says-”

“ _Tell me_ . They weren’t _what_?” His breaths come quick, a staccato compared to hers.

“They _weren’t_ -”

“Tell me why Bran and Rickon should be gone while _you_ still breathe the air.” She grabs him, forces him to look at her. “ _Tell me, THEON!_ TELL ME THAT THEY _WEREN’T_ YOUR BROTHERS-”

“ _They weren’t Bran and Rickon!_ ”

Her breath catches in her throat, a strangled pant of air as her eyes widen and her hands freeze on his rough cheeks.

“I couldn’t find them,” he admits with a perverted sense of relief. His stomach roils, but he keeps his gaze fixed on hers, searching those eyes he’d once sought after for a trace of forgiveness. Rage, confusion, hope, anguish -  these were familiar things, but _forgiveness_ , oh, sweet forgiveness was what he sorely missed. “It was two farm boys. I killed _them_ and burned _them_ so no one would know.”

She gasps, and he looks down and away, unable to continue.

“You didn’t?”

He shakes his head, jerks it to the side to stare at a wall.

“Do you know where they went, Bran and Rickon?”

“I can’t talk to you anymore,” he says, head darting from side to side like a flopping fish.

“Theon, you _have_ to tell me,” she commands, grabbing at his grimy robes. “Do you have _any idea_ where they went-”

“ _Not Theon! REEK!_ ” he shouts, wrenching himself away with the rip of fabric. Flinging open the door, he scurries away, ears faintly picking up the beginnings of a wail.

* * *

 

He hardly flinches at the echoes of screams anymore. No one does anymore. People mutter, claiming that the souls of the dead and flayed are rising up to join arms with the encroaching stormlander army, that the Starks themselves keen judgement upon their ancient, despised foe. Visiting Northern lords shudder as they stand in the great hall, staring upon the black-bone-blood banner of their liege before averting their gaze and clenching their jaws.

Lord Bolton has become rather irritable of late, fists clenching around his blade and fork during dinner and not even attempting pleasant conversation with his daughter by law, preferring instead to glare at Master and him in turn. Sansa picks at her food with shaky hands, hardly attempting polite conversation with Lady Walda, who has taken to fluttering between frightful glances towards Master and wincing as the babe within her turgid mass kicks and twists.

Finally, huffing a grunt, Lord Bolton lays his fork and blade down upon the table, wipes his mouth with a pink serviette, and quietly states, “Leave us.”

Reek bows his head, shuffling over to take away the cutlery and plates, when the Warden of the North fixes him in place with a stare. “ _Leave us._ ” He glances at Sansa and Lady Walda carelessly, before returning his pale gaze. “ _Now._ ”

Flicking a gaze at Master, Reek turns and shuffles out towards the kennels. He eyes his pile of shit-stained straw before brushing it into something resembling a sleeping place, crouching down, and laying back against the freezing-cold stone.

Moments later, he hears the squeak and crunch of snow underfoot, smells the stale, sour scent of unwashed men, and forces his eyes open to see a score of riders, breeches and hands stained black and sticky. A pale pair of irises catch his, and Master gives him a smile and a slowly-wagging finger in retort.

He clamps his mouth shut.

That night, he falls asleep to ever so faint screams, carried along on whistles of winter wind.

* * *

 

“Milady. I’ve come to escort you back to your chamber.”

He can’t look at her. She’s exhausted - he can hear as such from her labored breaths, her pants like her house’s heraldic wolf. Myranda lets out a little giggle at her state.

“Go with her,” he pleads, giving her a short glance and heart skipping at the terror in her eyes before looking at her swelling belly. “ _Please._ ”

He can feel her eyes on him for a moment before she speaks. “I know what Ramsay is. I _know_ what he’ll do to me- to my- my child.” Her voice trembles on those last few words, but at her next, he raises his gaze to see her staring at him with firm, fearless eyes.

“If my child and I are going to die,” she says, holding him for a moment before turning to Ramsay’s jealous and armed bedwarmer, “let it happen while there is still some of me left.”

“ _Die?_ ” Myranda asks, releasing the bow draw. “Who said anything about _dying_ ? You can’t _die_ ; your father was Warden of the North. Ramsay needs you.” She pauses, then says, in a tone only a fool would believe to be thoughtful, “Though I suppose he doesn’t need all of you. Just the parts he needs to use to make a _proper_ heir, until you’ve given him a boy or two and he’s finished using them.”

At Myranda’s words, Reek shoots Sansa a panicked stare; her gaze flicks to his for a moment before returning to the girl.

“Then he’s got _incredible_ plans for those parts.” Myranda redraws the arrow, the string creaking with the strain of her pull. “So, shall we wait for him to return, or should we begin now?”

Sansa’s eyes widen, and she takes a step back.

“You’re leaving it to me?” The mad maid’s words drip with pleasure. “Good. Let’s begin.”

Everything happens so fast: Sansa’s hands coming up to wrap around her child - _their child_ , he realizes with a jerk of the head - and she screams his name - his _true_ name. He - not Reek, nor necessarily Theon, but something primal deep within him - _moves_ , wrapping around Myranda with eldritch strength and heaving her up and over the catwalk railing, deaf to her screams.

He stares down at the body far below the pair, ears ringing. The sharp sound of a horn shatters the din, and his gaze whips to the Hunter’s Gate as a voice calls out, _Open the gate!_

“He’s coming back,” he whispers in horror, looking over his shoulder at Sansa, who looks back with panicked worry.

In one moment, he’s staring at her; in the next, he’s dragging her across the snow-slicked stones, up the stone steps and onto the wall proper. He dares a glance down at the snow far below, sending up a prayer to whoever will listen, then clambers onto the edge and puts out his hand for Sansa to grab. She takes it after only a moment’s hesitation, gulping as she sees the height. He squeezes her hand for reassurance, for strength, and their gazes meet.

He thinks he can almost see it now: that elusive feeling.

Gripping him tightly, she begins to step off, but he wraps himself around her, clutching her to his chest, and they fall into white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so how I envision things going in terms of GoT Westerosi time is this: each episode covers 1.2 months, or around 5-6 weeks. Thus, by that calculation, Sansa should have her kid by the time she gets to Castle Black (assuming all goes well).


	4. Sansa II

It’s an odd sensation, this cold. Sticky. Sapping.

            Gods, she’s so… so…

            “We can’t stop.”

            He drags her forward, one arm wrapped around her shoulder and the other resting across her belly as they stumble towards the light between the oaks and pines. Her stomach drops at the burbling flow of a river, and she nearly trips as the realization hits her.

            “I- I- oh, _gods._ ”

            She can feel his eyes on her. “We have to. It’s the only way. Our scent-”

            “We’ll be dead anyways,” she pants, hand coming to rest on her belly. “We’ll be caught, and he’ll- he’ll-”

            Her world blurs for a second; she swears she can hear her heart beat with her head, then-

            Gods.

            _Gods._

            She lurches forward on numbly burning legs, breathing razors and biting her tongue at the iron-like grasp on her wrist. The- her mind searches for something- the ghost looks back at her through her swimming sight, then up and away.

* * *

            “-sa.”

            Her hands look fine. They _look_ fine. But then-

            “ _Sansa._ ”

            - are they really?

            She tries to pull away, attempting to clench her fists, attempting to push him away, but she’s so… so…

            Her eyes close.

* * *

            Something feels... _warm_.

            She grunts, tries to open her eyes. They feel like they’ve been sealed shut. She opens her mouth, and tastes iron.

            Sputtering, she gasps, surging forward - and screaming as someone grabs at her.

            “Sansa! _Sansa! It’s me!_ ”

            “Th-Theon? I can’t- I can’t-”

            “For fuck’s sake.”

            She yelps as something rough scrapes against her chin, and again as the sensation passes over her eyes.

            “There. You should be alright now, milady.”

            She blinks, blurry vision focusing on a craggy mass of flesh punctuated by a shy, crooked grin and irises of sapphire.

            “One-Eye?” Her brow furrows. “But- no, wait, that’s not-”

            “Shh, milady. You must save your strength - for both of you.”

            Her eyelids are already drooping, but she shakes her head. “Theon. Where’s-”

            “I’m here.” Her nose burns as the slightly-rotten smell wafts over her, but she leans into the feeling of his lips on her forehead. “Rest now. We’re- we’re safe.”

            She paws for him, sighing at the feel of his palm over hers. His chest rises and falls against her cheek, and she closes her eyes against his heart’s 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBH, I'm not really feeling this fic anymore, but I'm not going to abandon it. That being said, I've been set behind a little, since I can't find my outline for the chapters, so... we'll see.


End file.
